Mo is one of those cocksure men who struts through life genuinely believing that he's God's gift to women. The straight Scottish lad chases pussy everywhere he goes, constantly boasts of banging several chicks at once, and loves to sexually degrade them and treat them like crap.

Hanging out with Mo at the bowling alley, and watching him wash his car, we eye up his superbly fit body when he's not looking. Mo really, really can't stand to have "queers" looking at him... but luckily he'd never suspect his three mates are "gay bastards."

Despite his egotistical attitude though, Mo's unemployed and broke - which isn't surprising when he acts as though female interviewers should give him the job just so he can fuck them. We've been dropping hints about making bags of money as stuntmen for movies - and this gullible prick is falling for our bait...

Soon after we've told him of our stunt training project, conceited straight Maurice turns up on our doorstep, brazenly assuming we'll give him work just because he can do a couple of gymnastic moves. But I'm not impressed.
What we really need to know, I tell him, is that he can get free from 'simple rope ties'. He falls for it... within minutes we've got him trussed up tightly - and as we begin to seriously invade his personal space, he's getting more uncomfortable by the second.

As Stan feels up his muscular chest, I take a pair of scissors and without ceremony, begin cutting off his shirt. It's slowly dawning on Mo that this is not a stunt, it's not a game, we're not going to let him free. And as we maul his nipples and grope his dick, he starts to realise that we might not actually be straight after all.

But all his struggling and shouting for help gets Mo nowhere. I punch him in the guts before taking a flogger to his pale Scottish skin, each hit making him leap and grunt in helpless anger and pain. I yank his pants up high to expose his firm round buttocks for Stan to hit too, before stripping him totally naked and toying with his thick, heavy cock and balls.

By now, Mo's in hell, willing to do anything to make the pain and naked humiliation stop. He has to do whatever he's told, even wanking my cock through my jeans, following my verbal orders to run his hands up and down my shaft and make it feel fucking good. It's obvious he's never touched a cock before in his life, so I help motivate him by wrenching his ears back while giving him more commands.

Now I've got an aching hardon, and I just want to get my hands on that tight little virgin arse of his. We bend him over, spread his creamy cheeks, and I ram my finger straight into his hole, giving him a long, hard fingerfucking as he screams the place down, howling for help at the top of his voice. But we've hardly even got started punishing this swaggering straight twat yet... there's far worse to come.

We've put angry straight lad Mo in one of our cruellest bondage predicaments yet - cock and balls pegged all over, and nipples viciously clamped and tied to his toes, raising his legs up in a horribly strenuous position - and keeping them there. Every muscle in his legs and abs soon begins to throb from the stress of holding his own feet up, for fear of causing his nipples even more pain.

But this isn't enough for a pair of sadists like us. To speed up his suffering to those peak levels which really stiffen our dicks, we pick up our whips and begin caning the cunt so hard that his pale arse instantly starts to turn a bright shade of red.
At first, Mo instinctively jerks away as the pain intensifies - but every movement he makes gives his tender nipples an agonising wrench. Mo quickly learns the hard way that he has to lie there and fucking take every nasty stroke.

When Mo's arse is a throbbing pink, we start whipping his lean, untouched thighs. His screams get even more desperate and his firm white thighs rapidly redden - but we show no mercy, no matter how much the cunt begs, until his entire arse and legs are striped and sore.

But we want to see those pec cherries put through some proper fucking - so I begin a new regime of misery for our helpless straight lad to get him moving those feet about... severe tickle torment.
As our jabbing, probing fingers begin to tickle Mo's ribs, pits and waist, he spasms and writhes, his screams reaching fever pitch. He has no control whatsoever over his movements - and each involuntary jerk of his legs almost rips the clamps right off his nips.

For a laugh, we offer Mo a choice - we'll stop tickling him if he wants to be caned instead. Instantly he's pleading to be punished - clearly the tickling is the worst of the two evils. So we up the stakes - whipping is a hell of a lot nastier when it's on the sensitive soles of the feet! We each lay down a series of whacks on Mo's naked soles, eliciting cry after cry of pure raw agony from the anguished lad.

What Mo is quickly learning is that when we stop a punishment, it doesn't mean his suffering is over. It means it's about to get worse.